


Under Cover of Darkness

by yespolkadot_kitty



Category: Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Smut, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-17
Updated: 2015-12-17
Packaged: 2018-05-07 05:57:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5445758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yespolkadot_kitty/pseuds/yespolkadot_kitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A porch swing, darkness, and feeling bold.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Pinpricks of starlight pierced the dark blue blanket of the sky overhead as Abbie padded, barefoot, out on to the porch. The house smelled of “toad in the hole,” a British recipe involving savoury batter and sausages and quite a lot of thick gravy. With her new houseguest, Abbie expected to try a lot of cuisine from across the pond. She was still shocked that, despite the “burnt Bedfordshire clanger” incident, Crane was actually not a bad cook. Perhaps he’d practiced when he and Katrina lived in the cabin, she thought, and the notion of him waiting on the redhead like a dutiful, loving husband, made Abbie frown.

She firmly pushed the late Witch from her mind.

He sat on the white porch swing, rocking it very gently. Despite the very late hour of the night, he still wore boots, coat, and that ridiculous lace-up shirt that showed more than she’d like of his chest. No. More than made her comfortable. Because God forbid she should have any thoughts other than platonic ones when it came to her fellow Witness.  
But she did.

“Lieutentant.” His gentle rumble carried across the space between them. In the distance, a porch light from another house backlit him, picking out the feathered edges of his shorter hair, the metal of a coat button, the tall glass he held in his right hand.

“Couldn’t sleep?” She moved closer. 

No. Nor could you, it seems.” His hand moved, and she realised that he was gently patting the empty section of swing beside him.

She hesitated, then felt foolish. It was just Crane. Nothing out of the ordinary. She saw him every damn day. Except that now, they were under cover of darkness. The dark lent an air of mystery and excitement. If she yearned for him, he wouldn’t see it on her face. Not until the dawn broke. And she’d be back in her own bed by then. Wouldn’t she.

“I promise not to bite,” he added gently, and she sat down beside him, the swing creaking ever so slightly.

Cicadas chirped in the distance. Streets away, lights winked on and off as people retired to their beds, or got up before the dawn.

“I trust it is not my presence in your home that’s causing slumber to elude you?” he asked softly.

The scent of whiskey drifted up from his glass. She wondered how much he’d had. Enough to consider-

“Nah,” she lied. He was causing her to lose sleep, but not in the way he probably thought. “Paperwork keeping me awake. You know how it is.” 

“Indeed,” he agreed, but she knew he didn’t know about the mountains of paperwork that police work generated. She hated it; but it came with the job. It was as much a part of the job as the investigation; as the discharging of a weapon, when necessary.

She nudged him with her shoulder. “What’s keeping you up?”

He gestured vaguely. “I find that I am occupied with many things…. The very fabric of our existence; the fact that I may not be able to halt the demolition of the Archives, a place most dear to me… and I have not yet watched the finale of True Detective.”

She chuckled. “You’ve got a lot to catch up on.”

He huffed; just a small sound, but it carried to her in the dead quiet of the late hour. “It does trouble me, somewhat. The incongruity of this new America.”

She didn’t know what made her bold. Was it the darkness? His steady warmth beside her? His reliable scent, clean wool, gunpowder residue, and just a bit of woodsmoke? But something did. She leant into him, placing her small hand on his thigh, just above his knee. He was very warm. “Want me to take your mind off… things?”

“Oh.” He drew in a breath, then leaned to set the whiskey down on the wooden table before them, and covered her small hand with his larger one. “Miss Mills…. I fear that this, if indeed I am correct in to what you’re referring, is a path that, once travelled down, cannot be easily forgotten.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which things begin to get steamier.

The silence of the night closed around them, heavy with possibility, heavy with the million words that zinged between them, all unsaid, falling into the huge chasm between them, the chasm littered with Katrina, with Danny, with the knowledge that Crane had left for nine months once, and what if he left again-

The silence seemed to drag on into hours.

“Your thoughts are very loud this evening,” Crane said softly.

“Maybe I wouldn’t need to think so loud if you’d have said something.”Anything, she silently begged. She felt as if she’d reached deep down into herself to even approach him tonight, and he’d rebuffed her with his stupid British silence, with his lack of words.

He spread his hand so their fingers laced. She glanced up at him and, in the half-light, saw a muscle jump in his cheek. Maybe not so unaffected as I thought.  
“Lieutenant, what you suggest is.. far, far more than I ever dared hope to experience in your company.”

His words were so quiet, his voice so soft, that it was only through the late hour’s silence that she heard him at all. His thumb traced gentle strokes on the edge of her pinky finger. She had touched him so little, really, that even that tiny contact sparked something inside her, something that grew hotter with every passing moment. She recalled with clarity rescuing him from the detention centre, seeing him in that ridiculous orange outfit, and thinking – so that’s what his arms look like.

“So…..” she swallowed, suddenly wanting some light, wanting to see his face, search his gaze, look into those bottomless blue eyes and see herself reflected there. “You do. Want to. Walk down that path with me, I mean.”

His hand tensed on hers for a moment. “I have never contemplated a journey as often, Miss Mills. Abbie.”

Her name on his lips was a sort of prayer. He said her first name so rarely, she always forgot how much she liked the sound until she, eventually, inevitably, heard it again.  
She didn’t see him move in the darkness, but suddenly he turned slightly toward her, and his other hand cupped her cheek, long fingers threading into her hair, exploring, stroking. She shifted closer to give him access, and he turned his head so they faced each other. For a second, she thought he would ask permission to kiss her, or launch into some speech about how Jefferson would have handled this sort of thing.

But instead, his lips ghosted over hers, barely there, the brush of a butterfly’s wings; the first shimmer of moonlight after the sun goes down. She must have made some noise of assent, of impatience, because his hand tightened in her hair and the kiss deepened, turned hungry, needy. She drank him in; whiskey, the savoury flavour lingering from their earlier dinner, and just an edge of his favourite earl grey tea.

If someone had told her only a few years ago that this tall, slightly odd, time-traveler British scholar turned spy would come into her life and turn it utterly upside down, she would have laughed. Would have shrugged it off. Never would have thought-

His tongue danced with hers, and every thought apart from this, more of this,fell straight out of her head. She pulled her hand free from his and turned fully towards him, linking her arms around his neck, tunneling one hand into that glorious golden brown tumble of hair.

She wanted to drown in him.

They kissed for moments that seemed to bleed into hours, drinking each other in for the longest time. When it wasn’t enough, when her body screamed more, more, please more, Abbie snaked a hand down his chest and let her fingers explore the gap in his shirt, the gap where, in his day, a very proper neckcloth would have sat, hiding the place she touched now.

Thank God for modern impropriety.

She heard his breath catch as her fingers trailed over the light dusting of hair on his chest. She could feel his heart beat a fast tattoo, in time with her own elevated pulse. His skin was smooth and warm; inviting.

She dragged her other hand from the soft mop of his hair and instead focused on the hem of his shirt, tucked properly into his trousers. Suddenly impatient, she tugged and tugged until the material flew free.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which things get slightly smutty.

“Arms up.” Abbie barely registered her own voice issuing the command of her fellow Witness, but he obeyed wordlessly, helping her to first slip off his heavy woollen coat, and then, slowly, to draw the flouncy-sleeved garment over his head. As it went up, up, more of him was revealed – a whipcord lean form, packed with lithe muscle. His body was a reminder that yeah, he’d been a soldier. A captain. In peak physical shape, in command of men and weaponry.

The shirt passed his scar, a reminder of what had brought them together, and although she disliked the resulting welt that marked his skin, she couldn’t regret it – any of it. The moments that had passed, everything that had happened until now, including Abraham and Katrina, had brought them to this singular reality.

And then she tossed the garment to the ground. It fell to the decking with merely a whisper as the fabric collapsed in on itself.

She met Ichabod’s gaze. He arched an eyebrow, but she didn’t miss the hitch in his breath. “And now what are your plans for me, Lieutenant?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know.”

“I am beginning to think that perhaps, it may be more enjoyable to simply wait and find out.” The last word came out as barely a whisper as Abbie got tired of talking and started to feather kisses down his chest, enjoying the lurch of his heart under her lips. She had wondered what it would be like – what he would be like, a two hundred year old time traveller in her bed – but she always had to remind herself that he wasn’t a relic. His life had been paused and restarted. He was a, what, thirty-five, year old man.

And he was hers for the taking.

His hands threaded through her hair, gently stroking, as she continued her exploration down his chest, enjoying the springy feel of his own hair there, over his sternum. Out here in the night, they only had the cicadas and the moon for company, and she felt bold. Free. Unconstrained by the past and what might be the future. 

After a full exploration of his chest, Abbie allowed her hand to follow the arrow of hair that led to his breeches. Such complicated attire. Fingers brushing his now prominent erection, she fiddled with the placket on the front in the half-darkness, drawing laboured breaths from above. A naughty smile plucked at her lips. Good. Let him be frustrated. Let him lose control, for once. Let it be with her.

And then all at once, the buttons popped free and he was in her hands – hot and heavy and hard, and she circled him, exploring, touching.

“God’s wounds,” he muttered, and his hand fisted in her hair. She idly wondered how long it had been, since someone else had touched him, like this, then pushed it out of her mind. Tonight was about them.

“There’s been no one, Lieutenant. Abbie.”

Her hand stilled. “What?”

“I estimated – and forgive me if I am inaccurate – that you were perhaps considering if I have… been with anyone since my life restarted in this present, modern America. I have not.”

Her breath caught. “Not even….” She couldn’t bring herself to utter the other woman’s name. 

“Not even.”

Her breath rushed out. She didn’t realise it had been that important until now. Relieved, she turned her attention back to the matter at hand, taking her time, learning the length and feel of him, enjoying the huffs she heard him make; supposing that he was trying to be quiet as they were outside on the porch, albeit under almost near perfect darkness.

When she’d mapped him with her fingers to her satisfaction, she used her mouth. That drew some choice expletives from his lips. The swear words somehow seemed filthier in his cut-glass British accent, and she savoured the taste of him, using her hand in conjunction after a few long moments.

“Lieutenant.”

“Mmmmm.” She started to lick him like she would a cone of her favourite chocolate ice cream.

“I fear that this…. will soon be over if you continue in this .. wondrous vein.”

But she did want to continue. What did he think the endgame was? Although Abbie had entered into this with her eyes wide open, she wasn’t ready for him in her bed. Not yet. That made it… a little too real. Out here, they weren’t making love in her house. If he came to her bed, and then went on another nine-month “sabbatical”.. she’d have reminders of him every-damn-where. On the pillow. On the sheets. Every time she went to sleep. 

No. She wasn’t ready for the next level. But she could give him, give them, this, on the porch in the darkness.

His long fingers massaged the back of her neck, stroking gently. He didn’t try to undress her, or get under the clothes, seeming to understand that tonight, she just wanted to give him pleasure, that whatever came after, between them, they’d always have this.

“Abbie. Good Christ.” He tensed under her. She felt his thighs go rigid, and thought for a fleeting moment that she’d have loved to see his face at this moment, know it was her who’d caused him to go over the edge, even if this never happened again.

Afterwards, he cupped her chin and brought her face back level with his shoulder, dropping kisses on the top of her head. His breathing was still laboured, and she knew it’d take him a while to come down from what they’d shared. 

She knew the feeling.

It would be so easy to take his hand and lead him to her bed. Lead him to the sofa. To any place they could get down to the horizontal tango. But it was very late – or very early, and the dawn light would make this all the more real. Tomorrow, when it came, they might need to talk about this – the fire that danced between them, the fire that, pretty soon, might prove impossible to extinguish.

But it was still dark. So she let him hold her, his lips pressed to her hair, as he gently rocked the porch swing.

**Author's Note:**

> 871 views! I love you all.


End file.
